Through the Valley of the Shadow of Death
by Leila Secret-Smith
Summary: Jason kills the Joker in the process of rescuing his so-called brothers. Bruce thinks he'll lay low for a while, or maybe drop by to rub Joker's death in his former mentor's face. So what is Jason doing on top of Wayne Enterprises, unarmed and waiting? (Prequel to "Yea, Though I Walk" but can be read as standalone)


It was early morning, and greyish winter sunlight had just begun to illuminate Gotham's jagged sky when Batman stopped. His frantic search for his sons, who had been taken by the Joker near three in the morning, was cut mercifully short by Nightwing's voice in his ear. Chilling winter winds howled around his still form as he received the news: The Joker was dead, killed by Red Hood mere minutes prior.

It was hardly a surprise. Deep, deep down, he had hoped that Jason had been backing away from the killing, perhaps considering a compromise between their diametrically opposed philosophies. After all, his kills had lessened to a bare minimum, and Batman knew of at least a half-dozen opportunities to assassinate the Joker that Jason had silently passed up.

The lack of surprise, however, turned out to be the only clear feeling he had in regards to the situation. For one thing, Jason had rescued Nightwing, Red Robin, and Robin, all of whom were being tortured by the Joker at the time. For another, Joker had apparently been seconds away from killing Damian.

"Joker said he was going to _execute_ him, 'two birds with one crowbar,' B," Nightwing reported in a shaky, hushed voice. Damian cursed vociferously in the background as Tim popped his arm back into place. "He had the knife _right there,_ he was moving to do it, and I—" the older vigilante's voice cracked, and Batman felt the weight of shared terror. "But then, Hood… he just, just burst through the skylight, trailing blood and glass everywhere. And he was _angry_ , B. Not 'I'm out for revenge' angry, but 'don't you dare hurt them' angry." Nightwing's shuddering inhale crackled loudly over the comm. "He said—he said 'don't you _fucking touch him_ ' and put a bullet through Joker's skull. He fought off the goons like nothing could hurt him, though I know for a _fact_ that some of those bullets hit home. Then he just… vanished."

After making certain that there were no serious injuries to be worried about—there weren't—Batman quietly commanded his sons to return to the Batcave. Oracle was already on the hunt for Hood, though he proved to be much better at avoiding her sight than he had shown before. Batman began to head back himself, anticipating that Hood would lay low, lick his wounds, maybe get out of Gotham altogether. After all, the Red Hood had finally gotten the vengeance he wanted—maybe he'd even drop by to rub it in Batman's face.

So it came as a genuine surprise when Oracle spoke not ten minutes later, reporting that Red Hood was sitting on top of Wayne Enterprises. Not doing anything, not even armed with his usual gear, just… sitting. Waiting.

"I'll take care of it, boys," Batman growled into the comm as Nightwing raised a ruckus, insisting that they should be there to confront Jason too. The answering silence was mutinous, but Batman's word was law.

(They all knew perfectly well that the three boys would watch from a distance anyways)

Jason hadn't moved in the time it took Batman to reach him; he sat on the edge of the roof, the soles of his combat boots dangling over thousands of feet of open air. He didn't turn, didn't even twitch as Batman approached unsubtly, not bothering to silence his weighty footfalls. Jason would have known he was there anyways. The older man paused to observe his wayward second son.

The boy's titular red helmet was off, sitting on the ledge beside his thigh; his hair was messy, soaked with sweat and blood (his own?); his hands rested in his lap, one clutching a Glock; Batman didn't recognize the black leather jacket he was wearing, but it was looser and bulkier than normal. The most conspicuous feature by far was Jason's total lack of weapons. There was no AK-47, no sniper's rifle, no grenades, no handguns—other than the one in his hand. Even the Bowie knife sheaths strapped to his thighs were glaringly empty. In fact, the lack was so conspicuous that Batman was certain it was a message to him. But what message? Irritatingly, he didn't know.

Batman spoke first. "Hood. What are you doing?"

"Hey, Bats." Jason's voice had a soft, dreamy quality to it. Painkillers, Batman deduced, and a worrying amount at that. Was that why Jason was here, because opiates had lowered his inhibitions and impaired his judgment?

Batman continued speaking when Hood didn't, his mouth set in a grim line. "You've finally killed the Joker, Hood. What more do you want? Wasn't it _enough?_

Hood swayed a little bit, still not looking away from the Gotham skyline. "Yeah," he agreed. The lack of anger in his voice was quickly becoming more alarming than relieving. "He's dead. It's—it's enough. It's _finally enough_."

Perhaps, had the inflection in his voice been different, Batman would have been hopeful that Jason was finally turning away from his violent path, was finally willing to come home and begin reconciling with his family.

Instead, Jason's words sent a sudden, foreboding chill down Batman's spine. The entire scene took on a different significance to the older man—the painkillers, the lack of armaments, the location, all of it, and Batman was not prepared for the conclusion he came to. He took a deep, steadying breath of the biting winter air before he spoke.

"Hood," he commanded uneasily, clenching his hands into fists, "move away from the ledge." It had to be the opiates in his system. He had taken too many and it was impairing his judgment. This couldn't possibly be _intentional._

Jason finally turned to look at him, and Batman's heart stuttered in his Kevlar-protected chest. The younger man's eyes were hollow and deadened, his entire posture speaking of an aching, bone-deep emptiness. The jacket, Batman realized numbly, wasn't actually bulkier; it was the thick, messy bandages that crossed Jason's entire torso and neck that gave the appearance of bulkiness. Most were soaked through with blood, and the tops of his pants were stained crimson as well.

"What if I don't want to?" he whispered.

A switch, subtle and instantaneous, took place. Suddenly it wasn't Batman talking to Red Hood, his former partner and fallen soldier: it was Bruce Wayne talking to Jason, the wayward son he still loved. Batman was prepared to deal with a dangerous criminal; Bruce was willing to deal with an estranged son; neither were equipped to talk the hurting boy in front of them out of suicide.

"Jason," Bruce whispered, his voice strangled. Bile rose in his throat, and it tasted like fear. "Jason please, come here." He took a step forward, one hand rising toward his son, but Jason lifted the gun and leveled it at his adopted father's chest. His hand shook minutely, sending the dim winter sunlight glinting across the gun's silver muzzle.

"Stay there," Jason snarled, his dreamy voice becoming more lucid. The emptiness in his eyes became hard and cold. "Don't you _dare_ come closer."

Bruce's heart hammered in his chest. "Jason, please," he said, his tone coming dangerously close to panic. "You're not thinking straight—"

A laugh, harsh and agonized, cut him off. "No. No, no, no, I'm thinking straight for the first time in a long time, B." The younger man drew in a wet, rattling breath, and Bruce automatically cataloged the sound—severe lung damage, at best. "I-I should never have come back. I should have _stayed dead._ But I didn't. And you know what? Now that the clown is dead, it's _worth it. It's all worth it."_ He shuddered and shivered, tears streaking down his pale face and dripping onto his heaving, bandaged chest. Bruce was growing progressively more horrified, and it was only the very real threat of the gun in Jason's hands that kept Bruce from closing the distance between them.

"All the _pain_ ," he continued, "all the fighting, all the indecision—it was _worth it._ I-I shoulda' killed him years ago. I should _never_ have listened to you, because _you know what?"_ He laughed again, wild and agonized. Blood splattered onto his lips, and he hunched over himself, though the gun stayed in position. "I realized that you're _never_ going to love me again, if you ever did in the first place. I'll never be anything but a screw-up to you, a _fucking failed Robin,_ the _dead soldier, a Good Soldier!_ " Jason panted heavily after his outburst, eyes wild and fixed on Batman.

And Bruce felt like throwing up. He knew he had fucked up with Jason a lot, past and present, but... did he really believe Bruce didn't love him at all? Had _never_ loved him? For all the emotionally inept ass that Bruce was, the knowledge still broke his heart.

Before he could respond to Jason, Nightwing's voice sounded in his ear.

"We're standing by, B," he said, his tone carrying the same uneasy wavering of suppressed panic that Bruce felt. "If he j—if he jumps, we've got him." Bruce knew that it wouldn't be enough. Not only could Jason put a bullet through his own skull faster than anyone could stop him (and didn't that thought break his heart all over again?) but it was clear that he hadn't properly attended his wounds.

If the fall didn't kill him, if he didn't pull the trigger on himself, then he would likely still die of severe trauma and blood loss.

Batman was always calm. Batman was prepared for all situations. Batman never panicked.

But Bruce sure as hell did.

"Jason," Bruce whispered, sinking to his knees. Scenarios raced through his head, one after another; Jason didn't survive in any of them. His breath shuddered through his lips, panicked, and he did the one thing he could think of: he reached up and pulled the cowl back. "Jason, stop, _please._ " His son paused, blinking in surprise at the sight of his father's face. He swayed unsteadily, the muzzle of his Glock dipping slightly. Bruce grasped the reaction like a lifeline.

"I know I haven't been a good fath—father, mentor, a good _anything_ when it comes to you." Jason's mouth curled in a snarl at his words, but Bruce plowed ahead anyways, focused only on pulling his son back from the edge. " _I'm sorry. I'm so sorry._ But Jay, I—I've never, not once, regretted taking you in. I've never regretted the fact that _you came back_. I'm _so glad you're alive,_ Jason _._ So please, please, don't do this. Come away from the ledge, _please._ "

And Jason looked… lost. His eyes were wide and vulnerable; blood dripped steadily from his lips as the gun dipped further toward the ground.

"I—I…" His expression slowly drooped, until he was staring at Bruce with the same exhausted hollowness as earlier. "I'm just so _tired,_ " he said quietly. His head dropped to his chest, sweaty black and white fringe obscuring his eyes. "I just want it to be over."

The gun clattered to the ground, and Bruce's heart stopped all over again as Jason looked up and met his eyes, his expression almost apologetic.

"Bye, dad," he whispered, then tipped over the ledge.

Bruce screamed.

"JASON!"


End file.
